July 6, 2015Mortality
Every thrown stone falls.
But there is a moment first
as it hangs in the air
that the blurred hand
that tossed it will not come again,
thinks the stone as it flies.
from #47 - Spring 2015
from #47 - Spring 2015
“Poems for me work like flashlights in a cave; they’re a way to explore the dark without dying. Also, because other poets over the years have given me such beauty, to the point of changing my life, I’d like to give something back, if I can.”